


they say i'm fearless

by swingsetjunkie



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Divergent AU, M/M, i have no idea what i'm doing okay
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-25
Updated: 2015-12-31
Packaged: 2018-01-17 00:12:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1366801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/swingsetjunkie/pseuds/swingsetjunkie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles might be the best Dauntless they'll ever see, but that doesn't mean he thinks he belongs there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> what am i doing???we just dont know

Stiles has grown up trying to make other people happy. Amity’s a nice place, it really is- and not just beyond what the other factions think. People genuinely just _are happy_ , whatever they’re doing, and they’re so at peace with everything and everyone that it’s always blissfully calm. Working the fields keeps them all occupied, keeps them strong and tired when the sun finally sets, and it’s a life Stiles can find no true fault with.

At least, not one he’s willing to voice.

It’s a better place than anywhere else, at any rate, and he feels like he belongs. He’s appreciated, his jokes merit laughter, and he feels horrible about wanting to leave.

But he has to.

Testing day’s tomorrow, and he already knows what it’s going to tell him- it’s going to tell him that he doesn’t belong, that he’s too cynical and sarcastic to belong in soft-hearted Amity, no matter what his father says or what Scott says. He’s not sure what they’re going to tell him, only that he’s not suited for happiness or peace or long evenings gathered by the fire, strumming a guitar and singing songs about the seasons, the long road, the harvest. He’s not meant for the necessary toil of the fields, the joy of bringing happiness to others.

He’s meant for something else entirely.

“Go to sleep, Stiles. Early morning tomorrow, remember?”

His father flicks the light out on him, interrupting his reading quite effectively.

“Gotcha, dad. Good night,” Stiles murmurs, dropping his book with a regretful _thunk_. He’s not going to be able to sleep tonight, not at all, though that’s hardly outside the norm. Stiles hasn’t been sleeping for weeks because of this.

He’ll have to wait out the night in blackness, because he and his father share this room in the Amity compound, and he doesn’t have it in him to keep his father awake because of his inability to clear his mind. He shouldn’t worry- the test will tell him what’s meant to be, where he belongs, and no matter what he can choose whatever he wants, wherever he wants. He can choose.

Stiles just isn’t sure what he’s going to choose, and choosing day is right after the tests.

He leaves in the morning with Scott and the others, walking and laughing and dancing in the streets. They’re all dressed in their brightest, their most colorful clothes, and Stiles doesn’t feel ridiculous until an Erudite sneers at them like they’re idiots, like they have no idea what’s going on. He tries to ignore it, he really does, instead watching the Abnegation file into a line, eyes downcast and modest. He’s certainly not one of the Abnegation, is he? Nor Erudite. Maybe he’s Candor. Maybe he’s Amity.

Maybe, maybe, maybe.

The train catches his eye as it speeds past, and, to his amazement, there is an exodus from it as it moves- a mass of black and color, people screaming and shouting and laughing with adrenalin as they do it, and Stiles knows that these are Dauntless. He’s not one of them, either, because he’s never done a brave thing in his life. He doesn’t understand that kind of bravery- or is it idiocy? Sure, he enjoys a good run and riding in the back of a truck, the wind in his hair, but jumping from moving trains, fighting the factionless—

Factionless. Maybe he’s factionless. Fear yawns in him, bright and insistent, and he buries his face in his hands and waits for them to call his name so he can take the test.

When they do, he goes inside with shaking hands, lays on the chair as instructed. Clenches as he’s stuck in the neck with the serum, wills his hands to stop tremoring, because the man giving him the test is looking at him oddly, like he’s reacting to this wrong, like he’s not quite sure what to make of the shivering boy in bright Amity clothes.

The sim hits him like a splash of icy water.

He’s half-in, half-out of a frozen lake, scrabbling for purchase on the ice; there’s a pick, just out of reach, nearer to a smaller hole in the ice. Stiles knows he could reach it, if he stretched far enough, if he could heave himself out of the water enough, but the other hole catches his attention as he clings to the edge. It’s closer to the pick, though he’ll have to dive under completely to get over to it. If he’s too wet, won’t he get frostbite or hypothermia or something? But if he can’t reach it here, he’s dead for sure, he’s dead—

It only takes a split second for him to process this before he’s diving, diving, into the water that stabs him like serrated knives. He just has to keep moving, has to keep moving, and there it is, the hole, and as he heaves himself out, he’s—

Pulling himself up out of a swimming pool, laughing, turning to help out Scott, but Scott’s not behind him, it’s Lydia Martin, the girl he’s loved for years, and she looks absolutely stunning, so stunning, in fact, that he can’t help but stare.

“What’re you looking at?” She asks, winking, and _this is his moment_ , this is it, but he can’t say anything, he can’t, his jaw is refusing to move because he’s _never_ been able to tell her. He’s so scared, too scared- he’s not good enough for her, she’s so out of his league- and he just holds out his hand, smiling.

“Thought you were someone else, sorry! Need any help?” The lie flows easily, and she smiles back, takes his hand.

And leaves a dagger, sharp and wicked, and he’s not at the pool anymore, and Lydia’s nowhere to be seen. Instead, a massive beast snarls at him, canine and terrifying. It looks, Stiles thinks, like a wolf, or a wolf-man, and he clutches the dagger desperately. He’s not going to get eaten, not today, because it would _kill_ his dad. But the monster doesn’t attack, just keeps snarling, and Stiles can’t handle it.

“ _C’mon_ ,” he shouts, brandishing the weapon, and the creature pounces.

Stiles ducks, throws his arm up, drags the dagger long and deep into its side, curls in on himself and rolls away, sure that he’s safe now, he’s killed it—

And falls, screaming, off the edge of an impossibly tall building. The wind cuts into him like nothing else, buffeting and powerful, and Stiles tears his eyes open against it, desperate to see how long he has before he crashes against the concrete, only to see nothing beneath him at all, even though he keeps falling, and falling, and falling. Suddenly he’s laughing, sheer adrenalin, because it’s obvious that there’s no bottom, that he’s going to fall- no, he’s not falling, he’s _flying_ \- forever, forever and ever, and, frankly, it’s a glorious feeling.

It’s amazing, actually. If this is what flying is like- it has to be what flying’s like, this weightlessness- then he wants to do it _all the time_ , will do anything to fly like this, and Stiles flings his arms out to cup and catch at the rushing air beneath him, giddy with it, blinking furiously as his eyes water with the cold.

He blinks, and suddenly he’s back in the testing room, gravity returned with a vengeance.

“Easy,” his administrator cautions, and Stiles notices for the first time that the man is an Erudite, suited and stiff-backed as he types away at his terminal. “It’s normal to feel some disorientation after that part of the sim.”

Stiles sits up anyway, rolling his shoulders. “What did I get?”

The question bursts out of him unbidden, the last thing he wanted to ask- the last thing he wants to know. But he’s going to be told eventually, and he can’t stand the anxiety of not knowing any more than he can stand the idea of knowing.

“Dauntless,” the Erudite man replies, removing his latex gloves. “Overwhelmingly Dauntless. Usually some people exhibit at least one other trait in the beginning of the simulation, but all of your decisions and reactions were completely Dauntless-oriented. Odd, from a boy from…Amity, is it?”

Stiles nods, shell-shocked.

“Regardless, you can choose whatever it is you want to be at the ceremony. I only encourage you to choose what feels right, not what you have been told.”

And so Stiles leaves, ignores Scott as they make their way back to the Amity compound.

“How was your test?”

Stiles grimaces at his father, settles into the rough wooden chair that’s his at the table. He’d rather not talk about it, but if his father wants to know, then he’ll tell him- ever since Mom died, there were no secrets, and Stiles is fine with that.

“Fine, I guess. I mean, uh, my result was a bit…not what I was expecting at all? But that’s okay,” he finally says, stuffing a bite of apple in his mouth. The elder Stilinski looks more amused than worried, but he doesn’t prompt Stiles for an answer. His father, Stiles reflects, is one hundred percent Amity. Always knew when he was on the verge of making someone uncomfortable, knew when to back off, knew how to make people smile and laugh and was a steady hand in the fields despite being a shoe-in for Leadership. Mom had been that way, too, before she died.

Stiles wishes that he could be more like his parents.

“I got Dauntless,” he adds, swallowing thickly around the chunks of apple in his mouth, and, to his surprise, his father smiles widely. “You’re not surprised. Why are you not surprised? I was surprised,” Stiles says fretfully, frowning, and promptly chokes on the bit of apple he was swallowing. Mr. Stilinski reaches across the table to pound his back, laughing, and Stiles comes to the abrupt realization that everything is going to be _okay_.

  


Everything is not okay.

“Stiles Stilinski,” the announcer drones, and Stiles forces himself to stand, shaking, and make his way to the center of the choosing room. There are five white bowls there, each marked with a faction insignia and filled with a faction element. The knife on the table gleams menacingly, tauntingly- _you don’t know what the Hell you’re doing, Stiles_ , it says, _you’re making the worst decision of your entire life_ \- and Stiles picks it up with a shaking hand. It stings as he draws it across the meat of his left hand, his pledge hand, and he sets it on the table as he clenches, keeping the blood from spilling.

He can feel the eyes on his back- all of them, from the grey-dressed Abnegation to the riot of Dauntless, and all quiet as they wait for him to make a decision. He can feel Scott’s eyes, Lydia’s eyes, his father’s- all of them no doubt trying to decide what he’s going to choose. He’s one of the last of the Amity to choose, and all of them before him have stayed within the faction save Lydia, who, unsurprisingly, joined the ranks of the Erudite.

Stiles exhales, flings out his hand, and lets the blood drip down, down, down, onto hot coals where it sizzles and snaps into the silence.

“Dauntless.”


	2. Chapter 2

The crowd of Dauntless lazing about in their section erupt into something Stiles can only describe as applause, though there's more screaming and cheering than actual clapping; ducking his head, he leaves the podium to sit with them, bright Amity clothes clashing against the largely black attire of his new faction. He can't look at his father. Won't. Even though he knows he'll be met with a smile, a nod, acceptance- his father has always only wanted the best for him, after all- he can't do it.  _Faction before blood_ , he tells himself, though the words are empty and hollow. He's a disappointment.

He waits out the end of the ceremony before he dares to raise his head, taking in the new factions. There are a few more transfers to Dauntless than just himself- an Erudite girl with shoulder-length brown hair and eyes so piercing he can't hold her regard for long; when he breaks away, she smiles, but not cruelly, and moves closer to stand nearer to him as the factions rise. Stiles doesn't say anything- can't, not really, with his heart beating a million miles an hour and the continuing litany of  _disappointment, disappointment, disappointment_ ringing in his head- but she doesn't seem to mind, taking in the rest of the faction with a measured look. The other faction transfers are higher up in the stands, a dark grey of Abnegation and two black-and-white Candors. Stiles isn't reassured by the fact he's not alone, not quite, but it's better than being the only outsider in the new group of Dauntless.

A call rings out from the top of the Dauntless stands, drawing his attention; the Dauntless begin to move up, jumping up the seats towards where the door to outside is. Heart jumping to his throat and stomach settling somewhere near his knees, Stiles follows, moving up the stands steadily enough to not be at the back of the group. He refuses to be at the back, the struggling, soft Amity- working in the fields is hard, muscle-building work, and he won't be left behind. The Dauntless break into a steady jog as they leave the building, heading what Stiles is assumes is south, towards the train depot. The Dauntless compound is on the outskirts of the city, he knows- they have to be close enough to the wall to cross it if necessary, for Amity not only worked outside but lived outside, for the most part, and the Dauntless protected them. He has no idea where the compound actually is, though, and no one in Amity knew either- not that he'd asked, but the conversation came up at times, during the mindless work in the fields.

At least Stiles can keep up, for now.

The train depot is about two miles away from the amphitheater, a brisk jog in the cold early February air; by the time they reach it, Stiles isn't so sure he can keep up after all. If this is his initiation, maybe he chose the wrong faction- sure, he's in decent shape, he plays sports with the other Amity kids when work's done, but he's never been a flat-out runner, never been the kind of guy that can let loose and just go running forever. Hell, he probably can't even do any of the exercises he's seen the Dauntless do on the wall- push-ups, for one, and whatever they call it when they grab a horizonal pole and heft themselves up so that their chin touches, over and over again. But this is his faction now- he'll probably have to do it to survive here. He will. He has to.

Stiles doesn't want to be factionless. He'd almost rather be dead.

He's panting when they stop in front of the depot; a train is waiting for them there, doors thrown ajar. He boards with the rest of them, crouching once safely inside to catch his breath. Stiles is relieved to see that he's not the only one struggling- in fact, there are some initiates that haven't yet boarded the train, which has started to creep forward as the engine warms. Stiles supposes that they're going to wait for them, and settles himself into his crouch; as such, he's entirely unprepared for when the train jerks into motion, sending him off-balance and stumbling into the initiates next to him. He watches with horror out the still-ajar doors as the terrain starts to fly by, leaving those that fell behind in the dust.

"Hey!" a girl shouts, voice loud over the low rumble of conversation in the train, "you can't just leave them behind!"

Her protest is met with silence, until a tall figure dressed in Dauntless black steps out from the crowd inside the train car; he's older than all of the initiates, expression bland. "In Dauntless, if you fall behind, you stay behind," the man intones, and Stiles can feel his stomach settle somewhere around his heels. "And you can either join them or stay with us. If you fail your initiation, or if you fall behind, anything- you'll be returning to your home factions. If you're a Dauntless-origin initiate, you'll be sent to work at one of the other faction compounds. Or you can become factionless- what you decide once you fail is your decision. Dauntless has no room for those unwilling to give their all, because it requires your entire being to protect those that you hold dear. The other initiates are being told the same. You're all on the same page."

With that, the man melts back into the push of bodies; the train car falls silent. Out of fear, Stiles decides- he's shaking himself, though he pushes to his feet. The train is slowing down. Not by much, but apparently slow enough- a Dauntless walks to the open train car door, laughing and shouting, and jumps out.

Stiles is having second thoughts about his decision to join this faction. He would have been safe in Amity, would have been safe even in Abnegation or Candor, both factions he could potentially see himself in- not his first choice, nor his second, and that's what it comes down to, isn't it? He chose this. Hating himself for that will most likely get him nowhere but Factionless.

When it's his turn, Stiles jumps.

The landing hurts. It hurts a lot, actually, but he heaves himself to his feet anyway when he sees that those that have jumped are running, pace nearly the same as before the train ride. Stiles decides that he hates this more than anything. He kicks himself into a jog, struggling to breathe in through his nose and out through his mouth; if he starts panting now, he'll never make it, wherever they're going. The woods are thick here, almost unbelievably so- he wouldn't have guessed that there was a forest this large inside the Wall. If they're even still inside the Wall. It's not like Stiles can look and see it on the horizon, not with the thick canopy of green above him.

Indeed, this forest is so green that Stiles can't help but think it's fake. Moss grows up every trunk that he jogs by, a thick green carpeting of grass and dead leaves under his feet; the leaves above are thick and heavy, trapping the barest whisper of fog high above. It's like they're not even in the city anymore, instead transported to some magical land where roots tug at his feet and leaves slip from beneath his shoes as he runs. He doesn't fall, not quite, but it's a near thing. He's also heaving for breath already, sweat beading on his forehead and down the back of his neck despite the chill. It was warm in the city, probably helped by the buildings and buildings that trapped in sunlight and heat like a cage; out here, it's almost cold, and the wetness in the air hints at rain.

Stiles hates the rain for more reasons than he'd care to admit, let alone think about.

The jog stretches on and on, to the point where Stiles is only running through sheer force of will. He's not quite at his breaking point, but he feels it in the edges of his vision, in the back of his mind, tinged red with fear. He can't keep this up for much longer, and what if there's more after this? He'll fail. He'll fail it all and be Factionless. It's not like he can go back to Amity and face the disappointment of his father, of what few friends he has remaining there. It would kill him, probably. At least, it would kill him faster than being Factionless.

He almost collapses as the pace slows, tripping slightly over his own feet. They've stopped.

Before them, a canyon cuts into the land, jagged and harsh, and at the bottom Stiles sees lights.

They've reached the Dauntless compound.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well, it's been a while! i actually didn't mean to let this sit for so long, but stuff happened- ya get kicked out by ya fam, move across the country, be poor, all that good stuff, and life takes a bit of precedence over everything else. i'm actually going to be actively writing now, so hopefully i can finish this!


End file.
